Oh muted world... I miss the sounds of nuance, subtle inflections during conversations, the heady whispers of secrets shared and the lowered voices intoning information. Though I’ll admit it’s generally better to dim the gigantism of children’s voices that echo in our small home lest the echoes reverberate in my head (I have endless patience right now... I wonder why?)
But still the birds sing and I can hear them, muffled may they be through my imperfect hearing. Still the air holds songs of jets and engines high and low and I can trace them though not as accurately. Loudest yet is my own heartbeat and breathing as though my own self is larger than life. This irks me somewhat. I prefer my presence to be felt but not overbearing. Here in my muted world it’s all about me and this makes me uneasy. A small lump also sits in my throat - perhaps resident to remind me of tears not shed (though many have been this past year) and yet so many are waiting, such is the depth of my grief so often hidden and obscured by banter and comedy, busyness and feigned candour. To pause seems akin to death as reality pierces my heart over and over.
But still the birds sing, their tune a joy and a wonder in this bright sun, easing the pain of a thousand years I feel. Tribute to the breaking spring. No toiling or spinning here, a reminder that all shall be made new and of a larger love still at work in everything.
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